Lila's P.O.V
The creak of the door downstairs echoed like a gunshot in the quiet manor, snapping me out of the haze of revelations from the family ledger. Madam Lavigne's hand tightened on the poker, her knuckles white against the iron. "Stay put, my lady," she hissed, her voice low and fierce, like a mother bear guarding her cub. But I couldn't just hide up here, not with my heart pounding like a war drum and that cloaked figure slinking through the garden shadows. Who was it? Ma Felicia, come to weave more poison into my life? Serena, with her sharp tongue and sharper ambitions? Or worse—someone from The Order, the council of elders, enforcing their damned deadline with shadows and threats?
I crept to the window, pressing my face against the cool glass, my breath fogging it up. The fig
